Jailer of the Damned
by elithior
Summary: This story takes place between the events of Wrath and Cataclysm. Tirion Fordring and Sylvannas Windrunner form an unholy alliance as they travel to Icecrown to confront Lord Bolvar Fordragon, the Jailer of the Damned.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This will be a multi-chapter work, but I don't know how often I'll be able to update next month as my time will be taken up with NanoWrimo. Feel free to offer any constructive criticism.

Chapter One: Stranglethorn

"Commander."

It was Bloodhoof, the newest addition to his command, and Hellas Brokenhorn turned, checking a sigh of irritability at the youngster's interruption.

"What is it now, Maru?" he asked, just managing to keep the impatience from his voice.

"Commander, there's some movement there, just off to the left." Maru pointed to a clump of deep brush and Hellas felt his heart pick up speed as he saw a shadow, blacker than the shade of the wood.

"Maru, stay here. Caron, you and Talon will accompany me." He ignored the hurt look on Maru's face as he, and the two hunters who were accompanying them, faded into the brush. They had been tracking the big female Shadowmaw since dawn this morning, and he had no intention to let the young Tauren's inexperience cost him a shot at his prey.

Maru threw down his pack in disgust as the others vanished. He slumped to the ground, muttering to himself, attempting to keep the tears that pricked his eyes from falling. Malia, the Orc shaman who had traveled with them from Grom'gol, knelt beside him, her eyes soft with sympathy.

"Don't fret, young Maru," she said, her accent thick and nearly incomprehensible to his ears. "There will be other times and you may yet have an opportunity to prove yourself to him."

"How, when he never allows me a chance?" Maru turned away from her, sniffing, and she hid a smile; it would not do for her to tread on his dignity; the teenage years could be a delicate age for boys.

"The war-leader is a good commander, but he thinks in a straight line. This can be good in times of war, but Stranglethorn has its own way of humbling those who ignore her warnings."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Maru stared at her, incomprehension on his face. "What can be more straightforward than a simple hunt?"

"There's nothing simple about hunting the Shadowmaw, my young friend." Malia turned to gaze in the direction the others had gone, and Maru strained his eyes, wondering what she was seeing with her strange black gaze. "Listen," she said, holding her hand up for silence.

Maru strained his ears, and now he heard it - the sound of men screaming. It was drawing closer and he picked up his bow as Talon staggered into the clearing, a dark shadow close on his heels. The Tauren hunter was gasping for air and Maru nearly dropped his quiver as he pulled an arrow with shaking hands. He managed to nock it and sighted down the long shaft as Talon fell to the ground. The Shadowmaw panther looked to Maru to be the size of a Kodo bull as it reared high above the incapacitated hunter, a roar of triumph echoing through the glade, startling birds from their roosts in an explosion of color.

"Shoot now, Tauren!" Malia's voice seemed to be coming from a long tunnel as Maru blocked out all of his senses. His vision had narrowed to a pinhole, focused on the monster's chest, just to the left, and slightly above, the joining of the great leg to the heavily muscled torso. He let fly just as the panther started down and now the roar was replaced by a shriek of pain as the animal crashed to earth. Malia was running in an instant, long bone knife clutched in her hand, and Maru watched dazedly as she slit the heaving throat with a quick, clean slash, jumping aside to avoid the hot spray of blood.

He was not far behind her, falling to his knees at Talon's side. Gently, he turned the hunter onto his back, wincing at the gaping wounds on the older Tauren's chest and face.

"Maru?" It was a whisper, the breath ragged with pain, and Maru turned stricken eyes up to Malia. She took Talon's arm, feeling for a pulse, then looked at the gaping belly wound. She looked at Maru, her face sad and tired, and shook her head.

"I'm sorry, Maru," she said. "There's too much damage. I can do nothing for him but ease the pain as he passes over."

Maru shook his head, gathering his friend into his arms, heedless of the flies that descended in a swarm to feast on fresh blood. Malia followed, head down, and Maru could hear her muttering what he assumed were prayers in the guttural Orc tongue.

He propped Talon against a tree and built up the fire. The hunter called out to people who were not there, and Maru looked at Malia, questions in his eyes. "It's the death fever," the shaman said. "He doesn't know what he's saying, Maru. It's likely that he'll never regain consciousness."

"Will you watch over him for a bit?" Maru asked. If he were honest, he had to admit that Talon's cries were unnerving him. "I need to know what happened."

Malia nodded. "Be careful, Maru," she said as he shouldered his bow and strapped his short knife to his waist. "There may be more of them, and I cannot watch over him and you at the same time."

"I know," he said. "I won't be long." He strode through the clearing in the direction the others had traveled earlier, giving the spot where the great panther lay a wide berth. He knew that if he didn't move quickly, the jungle's denizens would swoop in on the kill, and it would be a shame to let the magnificent pelt go to waste. _Focus_ , he told himself. _There will be time for that if you don_ _'t dawdle._

Slipping into the brush, he cast about until he found Talon's trail markers. He moved quietly for a creature who stood over seven feet tall and was at least half that wide, a talent he'd picked up from his grandfather when he'd been a calf living in the shadow of Thunder Bluff. The old Tauren had taken him in after his parents had been slaughtered by a wandering troop of Forsaken soldiers, themselves lost in the Barrens after being separated from the armies of the Lich King.

Maru still remembered the endless exercises old Silara had put him through, setting bells on the branches of trees, tying them to low-hanging bushes and making him move through, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until he could sprint through the obstacles without ringing a single one. The training had seemed harsh to him, especially when his grandfather would make him repeat the course if just one bell rang, but he was thankful now as he crept down the jungle path, stopping every few yards to listen.

The sound of growling reached his ears as he rounded the first bend in the trail. Stepping back, he peered through the heavy cover, watching as a group of panthers, many full-grown, ravaged his friends' bodies. He forced his fear away as he faded back, heart pounding, putting some distance between him and the creatures before he turned, running for the camp.

Malia was waiting for him when he arrived, flushed and sweating, and she looked at him, questions in her eyes. "Panthers, looks to be a whole pride of them," he panted, leaning over and trying not to retch with reaction from what he'd seen.

"Will they attack here?" she asked.

"Not likely," he grunted, "they're well-fed for now." Finally losing the battle to hold onto his lunch, he raced for the bushes behind the campsite and vomited, attempting to be silent so the old Orc would be unaware of his weakness. Five minutes passed before he returned and he was surprised to see Malia stuffing things haphazardly into their packs.

"What do you're think you're doing?" he asked, forgetting his sick stomach.

"We've got to get out of here." Malia began stripping Talon's pouches from the belt he wore around his waist, ignoring the hunter's groans.

"Leave him be," Maru said, shoving her away from his friend. She landed on her ass, the air escaping her lungs as she glared up at him. Scrambling to her feet, she glared at him, and for a moment her hands glowed red before she managed to get a firm grasp on her temper.

"Stop being a fool, Tauren," she hissed. "We've got to get out of here, now."

"Why?" It was a simple question and he stood in front of Talon, arms crossed over his chest, as he waited for the Troll to answer.

Emotions flickered across Malia's face, running the gamut from anger to fear, and Maru did not think she would answer. Finally, however, she sighed and motioned for him to sit. "It's not something that Hellas thought that you need to know, Maru, but with him and Caron dead, and Talon soon joining them, it's just you and me." She hesitated and Maru waited, patient, but his heart was now racing with excitement. "This is much more than a simple hunting party," she continued at last. "I am carrying papers, papers intended for Thrall himself, and they must be delivered to a courier at Venture Company's base camp before nightfall tomorrow."

Maru called to mind the map he'd seen hanging in the Grom'gol commander's office and his eyes widened. "That's nearly twenty miles away, through heavy jungle!" he said. "Not to mention the fact that the territory we're heading through has a high Alliance presence." He shook his head. "It's impossible, Malia. Our best bet is going to be to return to Grom'gol for a fresh detachment of men. We'll lose some time, but our odds of success will be far higher."

She was already shaking her head. "Impossible, Maru. Should we fail to get this message into the proper hands, our way of life could well be gone forever."

"I don't understand. What is in the message that makes it so important? Troop movements? Alliance locations?"

"Don't worry about!" she snapped. "Just - just take my word for it, Maru," she continued in a much softer tone. He stared at her for a long moment before nodding assent. "All right, Malia, I'll go with you. But," and he held up a hand and placed the other on his chest, "if you are leading me onto a trap, or your mission should prove to be something other than you have presented it to me, I will kill you, even if I forfeit my own life. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, you've made yourself clear," she said, careful not to show her amusement at his threats. "Let's get our things together so we can get away from here."

Maru began lashing some branches together as she finished packing their things. Stacking the sacks carefully in a pile, she smothered the fire and stood watching as he pulled the makeshift travois to where Talon lay. The hunter cried out in pain as Maru rolled him onto his side and slid the rough construct under his torn body. "What are you doing, Maru?" he gasped and the young Tauren nearly let him fall, his eyes wide as Talon struggled in his grasp.

"We're moving out," he managed to reply. "You're coming with us."

Talon grasped his Maru's arm. "Get me off this thing," he said, his breathing ragged and hoarse. "Use it to haul those packs."

"I'm not leaving you!" Maru was adamant. "You're not going to die here."

Talon sat up, wincing. "You don't have a choice, Maru. Malia was right, you must go on."

"But you'll die!"

"I'm going to die one way or the other." Talon rolled to his left and Malia cried out at the sight of Talon's armor; blood had now soaked his leggings, nearly to the knee. "That damn cat tore up my liver, Maru. No one but the Earthmother herself is able to save me now. Leave me to die with dignity."

Malia reached into the bag she carried at her belt and withdrew a small pouch. "This will burn bright and hot," she said as she passed it to him. "It will be enough for the ritual."

"My thanks, shaman," he said, relief evident on his pain-ravaged face. "I was worried that my journey to the afterlife would be much delayed."

"It's going to be." Maru looked at them both, belligerence clear in his attitude.

"I'll give you a minute," Malia murmured. She walked to the edge of the camp and Maru heard her chanting under her breath.

"Come here, Maru," Talon said and his voice was gentle.

Maru walked over and squatted next to his friend. "You can't leave me, Talon." Tears began to slide down his cheeks and he dashed them away angrily. "I won't let you die, not in this cursed jungle."

"It's not in your hands, Maru, nor mine. Not even Malia, with all her training, can help me now." Talon shifted slightly, fighting to keep a groan of pain from escaping as something ripped deep in his gut. "You have to help her complete what she's been charged to do." The last came out in a gasp and Maru reached out to steady him. Talon waved him away and continued. "The dispatch she's carrying is too important, Maru. Should she fail, or be captured, Thunder Bluff and the rest of the Horde will fall under the thumb of the Alliance king."

His eyes glowed with hatred at the mention of Varian, his family having been killed by a group of soldiers from Theramore, years before Maru had been born, in retaliation for a failed plot to kill the king. The fact that it had been an element of dissatisfied soldiers within his own guard had made the killings even more senseless, and many descendants of those murdered had entered Thrall's service when the Orc had become Warchief, so that they could kill Alliance in great numbers.

"All right, Talon." Maru's voice brought him back; he'd been drifting. "I'll go. I'll finish what you want me to do." Maru's eyes were dry now and Talon was glad to see it, even as he agonized over the lines of grief already etching lines on his young friend's face.

"Thank you, Maru." Talon straightened, bracing his back against the tree as he held out his arms. Maru embraced him gently and Talon felt moisture filling his own eyes. "Off with you now," he said gruffly as he pushed Maru away, turning his head so that the youngster would not see his tears. "Go on, Maru, you and Malia need to make as many miles as possible before dark."

Maru piled the packs and satchels of the party onto the travois and pulled it over to where Malia stood. "I'm ready to go now," he said and her heart grew heavy with sadness at the pain in his voice.

"It will be all right, Maru," she said, her voice hoarse with unshed tears, tears both for him and his friend. "The Earthmother will carry him home so that he may watch over you."

He gave her a tremulous smile and lifted the travois' handles. "Follow closely, young one," Malia said as she moved down the path, moving northeast. "As you have learned today, there are many dangers here." He nodded and followed, looking back only once. Talon raised a hand in farewell and he returned the gesture, fresh tears streaming down his cheeks.

When they were out of sight, Talon waited, praying to the Earthmother, gathering strength. After an hour, he managed to get to his feet, groaning as the tender scabs which had formed broke, and he began bleeding again. It was another two hours before he managed to stagger to the corpse of the panther Maru had killed. Chanting in the Tauren tongue, he removed his skinning knife from its scabbard and began stripping the velvet hide from the beast.

It took him the better part of the afternoon to complete the job. Time and again, he was forced to stop and rest, and by the time he'd finished, he was soaked through with sweat and blood. The tiny, biting insects drawn by the dead animal swirled around him as he wrapped the hide around his shoulders and began walking, head down, toward an outcropping of rock that lifted high into the jungle's canopy. He was forced to walk several hundred yards to the north before finding a faint trail leading up and he said another prayer in the fading light as he started to climb.

Halfway up, he fell, and could not get back on his feet. Cursing, he began crawling, one painful yard at a time, and the light faded as the summit came into sight. He crawled faster, and the last rays of sunlight lit the flat as he pulled himself into the open. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the clean air as the cooling breezes of night ruffled his long hair. He stayed that way for a few minutes, again marshaling his strength, nearly dozing off as he waited.

The sound of snarling, and the squeal of something small giving its life in the cycle of the earth brought him back to his senses, and he looked about, searching for kindling. He saw nothing but dried grasses and he gathered what he could as the sun fell into the ocean and night descended in inky blackness. Fumbling, his fingers growing clumsy, he felt for his flint, nearly panicking before his fingers closed on it in a pocket of the leather vest. He lay it aside and began the laborious task of stripping off his armor. The chest plate was a simple matter, but the shirt beneath was stuck to his bloody body and he gritted his teeth before ripping it away. A bolt of pain stole his breath, and he grayed out as the shirt fell to the ground.

Gathering the last of his strength, he gave himself a hard smack across the face, then another. His eyes watered, but his vision had returned and he managed to get the rest of his clothes off without much effort. At last he stood naked, flint and steel clutched in his hand. He'd coated the panther skin with the contents of Malia's pouch before wrapping it around his shoulders and he fought back a sneeze as the breeze blew some of the powder into his nose.

"Allow me to be brave, and let my soul fly high," he prayed, striking the flint with a blow hard enough to shatter it. The spark caught, dimmed, then caught again as the powder blazed up and engulfed the heavy pelt. Talon lay on the pyre he'd managed to build, staring up at the stars as the fire flared high around him. There was pain, but numbness from the blood loss was spreading, and he breathed deeply, the stench of burning hair harsh in his nostrils as his beard burst into flame. A last gulp of the searing air and his lungs burst in the heat, his soul flying free, higher and higher in the darkness of the jungle night.

 _Watch over my friend._ A last whisper on the wind, then all was silent, save the crackling of the flames.

A/N: The next chapter will take us far to the north, to Light's Hope, where Lord Tirion Fordring lies entangled in nightmares, his mind heavy with guilt over the events surrounding Bolvar's sacrifice in Icecrown.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: This will be the last update for a month or so, as I will be on hiatus for the entire month of November due to other demands on my time. Feel free to read and review. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 2: Light's Hope

The winter winds whipped the gryphon off course and Lady Justine Demalier leaned over the creature's neck, squinting into the onslaught of sleet and snow. Already she was regretting accepting Varian's mission to return here. "Lower!" she yelled over the howling of the gale. "We should be getting close soon."

Screeching in understanding, the feathered beast dove closer to the frozen earth, affording her a glimpse of the lay of the land. The dark shape of Crown Guard Tower loomed up and she reined hard to the left; the gryphon changed course and soon they glided into a small courtyard, filled with snowdrifts higher than her head. Tossing the reins to the groom who had appeared to meet her, she slogged her way to the door, careful not to lose her footing on the icy path.

Beaufort, Carlin Redpath's ancient retainer, led her to a small room just inside the main entrance and in a few minutes she was standing in front of a roaring fire, holding her frozen hands as close to the flames as she dared. Her cloak steamed in the heat as the Tower staff raced around frantically, fetching dry clothes and towels, preparing a meal and bringing her a cup of mulled wine.

"Ah, Justine, good to see you." Redpath's deep voice came from behind her, and at his gesture the servants vanished, the old retainer pulling the door shut behind him for their privacy.

"Good to see you too, Carlin." She was finally beginning to thaw and he took her cloak, hanging it on a peg beside the door. "I don't see how you stand it here," she continued as they sat and he poured wine for himself, topping off her cup before she could protest. "The Scourge are bad enough, but this weather on top of everything else? I believe I'd rather do two tours in Stranglethorn."

"Bah, the Scourge are holed up in Stratholme. They make forages into the villages from time to time, preying on those foolish enough to stay there." His scarred face showed the disdain he felt for such stupidity.

"They can't help it, Carlin," she replied sharply. "You know what happened to the ones who left, how they were treated by the ignorant folk when they sought shelter elsewhere." She shuddered at the memory of bloated corpses hanging from makeshift gallows as far south as Menethil Harbor; men, women, and children killed simply because they had survived Arthas' onslaught. Raising her glass, she toasted the memory of those lost souls, cursing the Lich King again in her mind.

"What are your plans?" he asked after a long moment of silence. "There are several beds outside the barracks, stingy, but comfortable enough."

"I don't have time. I need to make it to Light's Hope before tomorrow." Justine drained her glass and set it down on the table with a thump. She pulled her gloved back over her still-frozen fingers, trying not to wince at the clammy feel of the damp leather. "If you have a horse you can spare, I need to be on my way."

Redpath stared at her, for once at a loss for words. "Have you taken leave of your senses?" He began pacing the length of the room while she stood soaking up what heat she could get from the fire in anticipation of again facing winter's wrath. "You'll never make it, Justine," he said, coming to a halt in front of her. "There's nowhere for you to take shelter between here and Fordring's encampment. The other towers can't be finished until late spring, early summer at the earliest, and Corin's Crossing is lost to us."

"When?" She whirled to face him, her face white with fear. Too late, he remembered that she had been born there, that her mother and father had still been living in a tiny house near the crossroads when the Scourge had overrun the village. Rushing around the table, he caught her as she fell, easing her into a chair before going to the door to call for more wine. Beaufort appeared in a few minutes, filling both glasses.

"Is the Lady Demalier all right, master?" he asked, alarmed to see her slumped over the table, head in her hands.

"Yes, she's fine, Beaufort," Redpath replied. "Just exhausted from the journey."

"Very good, sir." The old man bowed and after another concerned look in Justine's direction, he pulled the door closed, leaving his master alone with the noblewoman.

Redpath wrapped her fingers around the cup, moving it to her mouth. The smell of the alcohol seemed to bring her back to her senses and she batted his hand away angrily. "I'm not an invalid, Carlin!" she snapped.

He sat back, watching the color return to her cheeks as she sipped. "It was over in a matter of minutes, Justine," he said gently and she turned away so he would not see the tears slipping down her cheeks. "They didn't suffer."

"How can you know that?" she whispered. "You know how those monsters behaved at the Wrathgate."

He _did_ know, although he'd not been present for that fateful battle. Fordring had spoken of the viciousness and savagery of Arthas' troops as they had overwhelmed the men and women under Fordragon's command. "Molly, the barman's wife, escaped. She had been picking berries that day and saw the undead approach from afar. She nearly burst her heart getting to us, but by the time we rallied a squad to drive them back, it was too late." He sighed at the memory of the dead lying torn in the streets and houses, mangled flesh soaked with blood. "We did manage to keep most of them from being carried away to be reborn into that unholy host."

"Thank the Light for that," she murmured, her voice steady. She turned to him and although her cheeks still glistened with tears, her face was composed. "I've got to get out of here, Carlin. It's important that I get moving, and if you won't loan me a horse, I'll walk the rest of the way."

He gazed at her, taking in the stubborn set of her jaw. "Yes, I guess you would." He nodded. "I'll get the stables to release one of my geldings to you. He's a good, steady fellow and he knows the route well. He'll get you through."

"Thank you, Carlin," she said, relieved at his agreement; she'd halfway expected him to argue her to death. Her tunic parted as she slung her cloak across her shoulders, exposing the crest of King Wrynn's house emblazoned across her chest. Redpath's breath caught in his throat and she sighed as she saw his eyes widen in surprise. "So, it's like that, Justine. Wrynn has you doing his dirty work now?" His voice was angry and sad and she stiffened at his tone. "You've come to take him back with you to Stormwind."

"Yes, and what of it?" she said, turning to face him, her eyes flashing angrily. "What do you expect Varian to do, Carlin? You've heard the rumors, I know you have. Tirion is not the same man that he was. He's…weak."

"You have no idea what he's been through, no comprehension of the evil he's endured. If you ever have to stand in his boots, I hope you can do so with even half his courage." He gave her a mocking salute and she flushed at the contempt on his face. "Your mount will be waiting for you, Justine," he said as he flung open the door. "Do not pass through my domain again. You are no longer welcome here." His footsteps faded, leaving her alone, shivering now as a cold wind blew into the room, the candles guttering out in the breeze. Sighing, she made her way back out into the cold winter night.

The wind had ceased its blowing when Justine set out and deep snowdrifts lay all around her. In the moonlight the snow glistened, lit up as bright as day, and she paused, marveling at the beauty of the harsh land, the ugliness of the Scourge's ravaging softened beneath the heavy blanket of white.

Her mount shifted uneasily beneath her and Justine kicked the animal into an easy canter. Despite Redpath's warning, she felt the pull of Corin's Crossing and when the road bent to the north, she followed it instead of continuing cross country to the east. Rounding the slight curve (so familiar, yet so strange after all these years), she held her breath as the small hamlet came into view. There were no lights, not even from the pub, and Justine reined in, small shivers of fear beginning to make their way up her spine.

 _Justine? Justine!_ Her mother's voice, carried to her by the wind, and two tears splashed down, freezing as they fell onto her lap.

"I'm coming, Mother," she whispered, and put spurs to her horse's side, moving slowly toward the only home she'd ever known. Step by step, she drew closer until she stood before the house where she'd grown up. A feeling of unease, a voice of reason, yammered at her mind, but she was lost in her memory, never sensing the undead crowding in behind her. They pulled her down, hands caressing gently. "Mother," she whispered as greedy mouths moved toward the soft flesh of her neck. "I'm home, Mother…"

A light grew, strong as the sun, and the creatures fell back, hissing and mewling with fear and anger at being denied their prey. Justine attempted to sit up as the intensity of it grew, the stench of rotting flesh, the sweet smell of corruption filling her nostrils. She rolled to the side, retching as the muffled sound of hooves reached her ears.

"You bloody fool, what in the name of Uther did you think you were doing!" A human male sat astride a powerful charger, the light of the god-blessed mace he held ready fading as the undead retreated.

"Tirion?"

"Justine? Ye gods, girl, what are you doing so far from Stormwind?" Fordring dismounted and pulled her close, enveloping her in a warm, magic bubble that smelled of horse and pipe smoke. She recognized Siabi's special blend and inhaled deeply, drawing strength from his presence.

"I bring word from King Wrynn," she replied. "He wishes for you to return with me to the city." A high, thin scream shattered the night and she looked about for the source. A scarlet stain on the snow showed where her mount had been dragged away by the ravening undead. _Great, another thing I'll have to answer for to Redpath._

Tirion ignored the sound. "I see," he said. There was something, some strangeness, in his voice and he turned away from her to stare into the north. "Any idea of what Varian wishes of me?"

"No, my lord, I don't." Tirion turned to look at her, eyes cold and speculative and she felt another shiver, this one working its way into her heart as she drew her cloak more tightly around her thin shoulders.

"Hmmph, you never could lie to me, Justine." He stared at her for a moment longer, then shrugged as he turned toward his mount. "Come on, lass, let's get you back to Light's Hope. The gods may have made you brave, but they surely didn't make you smart. Can you ride?" She nodded and he grunted as she swung up into the saddle. "Damned fool," she heard him mutter again; then they were riding, riding hard.

The charger was badly winded when the soft rays of the morning sun illuminated the walls of the Light's main bastion of power in the Plaguelands "You all right there, Demalier?" Fordring called and she nodded. "Ho the gates!" he thundered and the sound of the rusty mechanism controlling the gates set her teeth on edge. The men opened them just enough for the two riders to squeeze through and she slid from the saddle, looking round as Tirion pulled to the side to speak to the gatekeeper.

Barely aware of the wooden barriers crashing shut behind her, Justine stood looking round at the motley collection of men and women who called this place home. A glimpse of red caught her eye and she gasped as she recognized, the barmaid from Corin's Crossing. A few strides of her long legs and she was kneeling at the older woman's side. "Molly," she said gently. "Molly, it's Justine, Justine Demalier."

"She can't answer you, Justine." Fordring, his voice soft with grief and pity, stood tall behind her and she squinted at him in the sunlight. "She's been like this since Redpath and his men brought her here. She eats, she drinks, but that's the extent of what she will do for herself." He gestured to a group of women nearby, washing clothes in great kettles and chatting sleepily. "They see to her other needs."

His face was sorrowful, and for a moment she nearly forgot what she had come for, the reason Varian Wrynn had sent her to this cheerless place. "Come on," he said, pulling her to her feet. "Let's get you something to eat, and then we'll talk."

He led her into a small room that had been hastily tacked onto the chapel. Someone had obviously been busy; a full tray of meats and cheeses was sitting on the table, and a fire had been lit. Fordring motioned her to a chair, waiting until she was seated before sinking down with a tired groan. He stripped off his gauntlets, tossing them to the side and pulling a bottle of wine to him. He filled it and poured her a measure as well sitting back, fixing her with a knowing smile.

"I'll write a letter for you to take to Varian, Justine," he said as he brushed crumbs from the table. She stared at him, and he laughed at the look of surprise that was printed on her face. "I know why you're here, Demalier. I may be many things, but I'm not a fool."

"If you knew, why did you bring me here?" Justine withdrew the warrant and laid it on the table, just inside his reach.

Fordring snorted. "I've heard the talk among the men working at the towers, and even among those of my own command." He leaned toward her. "They say I've gone mad, you know," he said in a conspiratorial whisper. "Only a matter of time before that sort of talk moves up the line. Now eat, girl, you're far too thin." He got up and crossed to a small writing desk in the corner. Taking a heavy sheet of parchment from a small pile at his right elbow, he picked up a pen and began to write.

The only sound was the scratching of the pen; Justine poured a glass of wine and sat watching his back as he wrote. It didn't take long; barely five minutes had passed when Fordring signed it with a flourish, handed it to her, and walked to the window. "You read that before I seal it," he said and stared north, a brooding expression on his face. She stared at his back but he remained that way, straight-backed and silent and she set the letter down, lips moving as she sounded out the words in her head. Halfway down the page she gasped, but at a glance from Tirion, continued reading to the end.

"My lord, I can't take this back to his Majesty," she said when she'd finished. "He'll throw me in the Stockade 'til I'm old and gray!"

"As I see it, you don't really have a choice," he replied, amused at her reluctance.

He _can afford to think it's funny,_ she thought. He _doesn't have to face the King with this pile of manure._ Aloud, she said, "I can take you by force," and winced at the thin, shrewish sound of her own voice.

"No, you can't, but it might be fun to have you try." He turned to her and now his face was sober, showing no trace of his earlier amusement. "If you leave now, you can be back at Crown Guard by mid-afternoon and flying in to Stormwind by tomorrow evening. Please, Justine, tell Varian that I know what I'm doing."

He was not quite pleading and she was tempted to do as he asked. "I can't, Tirion," she said after a long moment of silence broken only by the shouts of men and women sparring in the courtyard outside the window. "Varian would have me killed."

A long sigh from the window. "That's what I would have expected of you, Demalier. Good to know that you still have your honor." He was watching her closely and she twitched her uniform nervously. "I'm leaving in the morning, riding for Lordaeron."

"Lordaeron! Why in the name of all that's holy would you go there?" Her mind was getting fuzzy, her thoughts coming more slowly. Last night must have taken more out of her than she'd first thought.

"To meet with Windrunner," he replied. "We are returning to Northrend, she and I. We both have unfinished business there."

"Sylvannas!" she gasped. "She's as bad as Arthas!"

"Spoken like an ignorant fool, someone who's swallowed the lies coming from the throne." Fordring looked at her with scorn. "Sylvannas isn't evil, as you've been led to believe, Justine. You have no idea how much the people of Azeroth owe her. She'll help me, and by doing so, she may be able to wrest back control of the Scourge and put an end to these depredations."

Justine surged up from her chair. "You are mad!" she said, stepping toward him. "Lord Tirion Fordring, I am placing you under…" Two more steps and she crashed to the floor, senseless.

Dawnbringer entered the room. "I was beginning to wonder, Tirion," he said, giving the unconscious girl on the floor a pitying look. "Thought you might not have given her enough."

"I was about to think the same, Elgior." Tirion took the warrant from the table and tossed it into the fire. Bending at her side, he winced as the bones in his back protested. He lifted Justine gently, grunting as he carried her through the door and to one of the small bedrooms of the chapel. Laying her on the bed, he brushed back a lock of hair which had fallen into her eyes. "I'm sorry, Justine," he whispered. "I'll return someday and make things right, I swear it."

Elgior was waiting as he stepped out and closed the door. "What do you wish for me to do with her when she comes to?" he asked as Tirion strode towards the stable.

"Keep her here as long as possible, Elgior. Trust me when I say that it will be for her own good." A groom bowed to the two paladins as they entered the tiny wooden building where the Argent Dawn's few remaining horses were housed. His mount, Silmara, whickered and he gave the stallion a gentle clout on the great neck. "Sorry, old fellow," he murmured. "This is one ride I must make without you."

"I wish you'd reconsider this madness, Tirion," Elgior said as the older man saddled a great chestnut gelding. "Who is to say that Sylvannas won't have you killed outright when you cross the border?"

"She won't, Elgior. Her curiosity is too great for that." Tirion grinned at his friend. "It's part of what's gotten her into trouble all these years." He led the gelding out into the sunlight. It was just past the tenth hour and he knew that if he rode hard he could cross through the Western Plaguelands north of the cursed town of Andorhal before the sun set. If he didn't, it would cost him another day; it would not be wise to camp too close and he didn't have time to detour south to Chillwind.

"You're in charge here while I'm gone, Elgior," he said as he swung into the saddle. The gelding shied a bit and he tightened the reins, getting the fractious animal under control. "Should Varian send another in search of me, there is a letter, signed and sealed, in my room. It absolves you and everyone here of any complicity in what I am doing." He smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes and Elgior shivered a bit with foreboding.

"Gods go with you, Tirion," he replied. "Good luck."

"Thank you, my friend. Gods watch over you as well." Kicking the gelding into a run, he arrowed toward the path leading west. The gatekeeper had been watching for him and yelled for his men to swing the gate wide. Swearing at the sight of their leader bearing down on them, they frantically worked the mechanism and Elgior felt his breath catch in his throat; they weren't going to get them open in time.

Just when he thought that Fordring would have to pull up or be killed, they swung open and he thundered through. Throwing his hand up in farewell, he shot through and vanished in a cloud of dust. Elgior breathed a sigh of relief before turning back to the chapel and the work that awaited him there. "Gods watch over you, Tirion Fordring," he murmured. "Gods watch over _all_ of us."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry it's taken such a long time to update this, but life got pretty hectic around the holidays, not to mention the fact that I had a stint in hospital. However, this is a new year and I have resolved to dedicate myself to my writing. Huzzah! As always, please read and review constructively.

Malia woke early the next morning, her senses pinging a warning. From beneath a nearby tree came the sound of snoring. Maru had been too exhausted the previous evening when she'd called a halt, so she'd sat up and watched until the sun had begun to lighten the eastern sky. It was now nearly noon, and the old shaman lay still in the humid air, not opening her eyes as she let the sounds of the jungle wash over her. The insects she associated with her early years living in the shadows of Zul'Gurub had gone silent, and she sharpened her ears, trying to hear over the hammering of her heart. Yes, there it was again, a slight rustling in the bushes off to her left.

Reaching out a gnarled hand, she grasped the staff she had carried from the day she had mastered the elemental ways of the shaman. Muttering ancient words passed down from mother to daughter, father to son, for time eternal, she sent a burst of light high into the sky. Fifty feet above the treetops it exploded in a shower of sparks, thunder rolling as it faded. Maru leapt to his feet, grasping at his sword hilt as he looked around, eyes wild with fright. "What the hell was that?" he asked.

Malia held a finger to her lips as she slipped into the brush where the noise had originated. She saw a huge pile of scat and wrinkled her noise; it was very fresh. Maru poked his head in to see what she was about and she motioned him back to the camp ahead of her. "Shadowmaw or tiger," she told him as they broke out into the hot morning sun. "Not that it matters now, but a few more minutes, and we might have ended up like Talon and Hellas."

Maru looked around fearfully. "Do you think we're safe now?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

"From animals, yes," Malia replied as she began smoothing out her thin blanket. Folding it over lengthwise, she rolled it tight and stuffed it into her pack. "But we'd better get out of here before the humans or trolls can mobilize. They both have encampments a few miles north and that thunder burst is likely to attract a patrol or two."

"Won't we be safe from the trolls?" Maru looked at her in confusion although he didn't hesitate to match her actions, shoving the few things he'd dragged out last night into a pack before tossing it onto the travois.

"No, we're not," she said shortly. "If anything, we'd be better off being discovered by the humans."

Maru gaped at her. "Why?" he managed to ask. "Aren't these your people?"

"I don't have time to go into it, Maru," she snapped, surveying the clearing to be certain that they'd left as little trace as possible. The last thing she wanted was to have to dodge a hunting party. "Now, let's get moving!"

He gave her a rebellious glare, but picked up the handles of the travois, and they set off, traveling in the same northeast direction as yesterday. There was no talking as they made their way through the heavy brush. Malia was lost in thought, and Maru needed every breath in order to keep putting one foot in front of the other. His hands had begun to blister, but one look at the old shaman's face, and he bit back any complaint.

The sun climbed higher and the undergrowth began to thin. Maru was sweating heavily and he groaned in relief when Malia called a halt three hours after the golden orb had begun to slide down the western sky. He sank to the ground, too tired to thank her, watching through half-closed eyes as she bent to scrabble in the dirt. She grunted with satisfaction as she let a handful slip through her fingers. Rubbing her hands on her skirt, she dripped a little of their precious on her fingers, washing away the muck.

"We should reach the river by early evening," she said, reaching into her pack for some of the travel biscuit. She broke off a fair-sized portion and handed it to Maru before taking a much smaller piece for herself. It had begun to crumble in the heat and she moistened hers with a bit of wine from a flask at her hip, afraid that she would be unable to choke it down. Maru had no such issue; a couple of quick chews and his vanished as quickly as a monkey skinning up a tree.

Malia only allowed him ten minutes of rest. "Come on Maru, our route becomes easier once we cross the river." He pushed himself to his feet with a grunt, but Malia's sharp eyes caught his grimace of pain as he took up the handles of the travois once more. "Let me see your hands," she demanded, hissing with pity as she saw the raw flesh. "You should have said something, Maru."

Shaking her head at his stubbornness, she reached into her pack, drawing out a roll of linen bandages. "Hold still," she said as she unstoppered the flask once again and began washing out the cuts with wine. He yelped, but she held his hands firmly and the pain soon faded. Malia wrapped his hands tightly and stowed her things back in her pack. Maru took the handles again, sighing with relief as the linen cushioned his wounded hands. "Don't do that again, Maru," she said as they began moving again, this time due east. "There's no reason for you to hurt yourself, especially not on my account."

"Yes, Malia," he said meekly. "Hopefully there won't be a next time!"  
"Aye," she replied. "I couldn't agree more."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

They reached the river just as dusk began the slow journey into night and Maru lifted his face, letting the cool breeze washed over him. They paused to catch their breath, looking north and south as they regained their wind. Malia had pushed them hard in the last hour and the sun slipped behind the tall trees as the young Tauren and old Troll stood gazing across the sluggish stream.

"Ha, we made it!" Maru exclaimed, fighting the urge to jump and down on the soft, white sand. Eyes shining, he turned to look at Malia, whose face had broken into an uncharacteristic grin. It faded after a moment as a howl rose from the jungle behind them.

"Come on, Maru," she said, "we've got to get out of here. The river narrows a bit further north and we must get across while there is still light."

"Why?" Maru asked. "And what is that noise?"

"Look," Malia said, pointing at a dead log lying half submerged a hundred yards to the south.

"It's a log, so what?" Just then, a great swirl and a splash obscured the log and when the water had settled, it had vanished. Maru turned to the old shaman, his face pale. "W-what was th-that?" he spluttered.

"A crocolisk," she replied, "and a big one. Those things will drag you under and drown you without a warning. I'd rather see what's after me, wouldn't you?" He nodded, his face pale, and she began moving north at a brisk pace.

"You never did tell me what that noise was," he panted as he walked, nearly running to keep up with her long strides. "What manner of creature was that?"

"It's a hound, one of the brutes that are bred by the elves to hunt for food." She gave him a mirthless smile. "In times past, those Darnassian beasts took pleasure in turning them loose on those of my people that were captured in the little skirmishes of the Plaguelands." She turned to him and he saw tears glimmering in her eyes. "My mother and little sister were killed by an elven raiding party, many years ago. Come, we must reach our goal, and soon."

In a few minutes, they had reached the ford. This time of the year, the water was low and Malia watched intently as Maru sprinted across the narrows. Her staff held high, she jogged across and soon they were swallowed by the jungle. Dusk had finally faded to full dark when several heavily armed Trolls stepped out of the wood.

"What do you think, Mar'jin?" One of the handlers approached the heavily muscled troll who had been leading the group since their landing at Tkashi this morning. "Do we follow?"

"Yes," he growled in the unfamiliar tongue of the blood elf. "We must see that she never reaches Bambala. If she does, we may all perish in the coming onslaught of Sylvannas and her ilk. Now, gather the men and go. I will catch you up in an hour or do." The elf turned to go, but the Troll gripped his elbow hard enough to make him gasp with pain. "Do not fail me, elf," he snarled. "The Lich King wants her in one piece. The same cannot be said for you."

Rubbing his arm in an attempt to restore circulation, the elf bowed. Hurrying back to his men, he gave a series of sharp orders and Mar'jin stood impassive as the troop vanished into the darkness. When the sound of their passing had faded, he climbed a nearby outcropping of rock, cursing as he slipped and slid on the thick jungle vegetation.

Lake Nazferiti stretched like a pool of molten silver in the moonlight and he could see snapjaw jumping at the insects that seemed to be everywhere in this cursed place. He longed for the woods and mountains of his homeland far to the north, and he felt a brief pang of sorrow for the thought that he might never see his beloved Gun'drak again. "Sentimental fool," he muttered to himself as he made his way carefully down to the jungle floor. He could not afford a broken leg now or he would die here as surely as the sun rose in the west. "Save that twaddle for the young." Still muttering, he vanished into the brush, heading north.


	4. Chapter 4

Tirion rode west, passing north of Crown Guard Tower before veering south. He encountered several roaming packs of undead, but they all steered clear of him, wary of his magic and the heavy mace strapped to the horn of his saddle. For his own part, Tirion ignored them; his mind was going over the same track it had been on since he'd returned from Northrend two years before.

As he travelled, ghosts of the past rode with him. Arthas, finally brought down by Tirion and the heroes he had led into the heart of Icecrown itself. Taelan, Tirion's only son, dead these many years at the hand of Isillien and the cursed men and women of the Scarlet Crusade. Bolvar… "Yes, hmm," he muttered to himself. "Bolvar."

Tirion could still hear the words of his old friend echo in his skull, words Bolvar had said to him as he and his little company had fled Icecrown just after Arthas' fall. _Now, go!_ Bolvar had shouted in a voice that rang through the halls of the cursed fortress. _Leave this place, and never return!_

Tirion had returned to Light's Hope after a month's leave in Stormwind, where he had been celebrated and embraced by a grateful populace. It was only a short time later that the Scourge had returned to Stratholme, once again making predations throughout the countryside.

Varian had sent forces to build guard towers along the main route through the Eastern Plaguelands, putting the old paladin in charge of their construction and staffing. Tirion had stayed busy for a year, caught up in the logistics and planning, and occasional skirmishes with the Scourge. But soon, nightmares began to haunt his dreams at night, dreams of a figure on a throne of ice, a figure with eyes of flame that burned hot and bright.

The gelding pulled up, snorting, and Tirion grasped his mace as he surveyed the terrain. He had veered too close to Andorhal and his heart began hammering as a group of shadowy figures materialized on the path before him. "Who are you and what do you want?" he asked, barely managing to keep a tremor of fear from his voice. "I have no quarrel with you today. Leave me be."

"Tirion?" The paladin stared into the trees, squinting until his eyes adjusted to the dark.

"Jaran?" he managed to gasp. The undead warrior stepped forward, wincing as the sunlight caught his pale skin.

"Aye, Fordring. What in all hells are _you_ doing here in this cursed land?"

"I need you to take me to Windrunner, at once." Tirion was careful not to let the disgust he felt at his former soldier's plight cross his face or come out in his voice. In life Jaran had been a fierce, proud warrior, and Tirion did not doubt that the traits had carried over in death.

"You truly believe that the Dark Lady will waste time on a warm-blood?" One of Jaran's comrades moved to the warrior's side, an undead priest judging by the robes, and a shiver ran through Tirion as Jaran turned to face the flaming blue eyes.

"It's my decision, Brightleaf," he growled. "This is Lord Tirion Fordring and there is no question of his honor." Facing forward, he bowed low. "Allow me to lead you, my lord," he said, ignoring the murmurs of his command. "I shall see that you reach the Dark Lady, on my honor."

Tirion inclined his head in acknowledgement of the unspoken warning: one false move and Sylvannas would gain another servant in her unholy army. Jaran vanished back into the scrub, reappearing in a moment astride a pale horse whose eyes glowed red in the setting sun. "Let's go, my lord," Jaran said. If we hurry, we can make it to the border before nightfall." Turning to Brightleaf, he said, "Take the men back to Andorhal," he told the priest. "I will return in a few days."

"Of course, Jaran," Brightleaf replied, but there was something in his voice that caused Tirion to glance sharply at the Undead. Jaran kicked his mount forward and Tirion followed, looking back once as the Forsaken faded back into the forest. Brightleaf stood looking after them and he felt a finger of fear at the look on the priest's face.

The two rose side by side, Undead and paladin, until they reached the narrow passage leading into Tirisfal. "Do you wish to continue on tonight?" Tirion looked at his companion. Jaran's face was sober as he stared into the gloom of dusk.

"What are the odds of us getting to Lordaeron if we take the chance?" Tirion would never admit to the thrill of adventure that the thought provoked in him.

Jaran shrugged. "Maybe three in ten. I can protect you here; my men are loyal to me. There…" His voice trailed off. "Sylvannas would never want you to know this, but her grip is slipping, Tirion. She still rules Lordaeron outright, but the Scourge's grasp increases every day." He turned his glowing blue gaze on the old paladin. "Is it not the same in the lands surrounding Light's Hope? Do they not grow bolder with each rising and setting of the sun?"

"Aye," Tirion admitted after a long moment. "I've had reports from Redpath at Crown Guard and Elgior has brought me disturbing reports from the other Tower commanders as well." His voice dropped so low that Jaran was forced to lean forward to catch his next words. "We must return, Jaran. We must finish what we started in Icecrown."

The Undead recoiled; he had been among those with Sylvannas and Tirion for the last assault on Arthas. His thoughts had been haunted by the atrocities he'd seen in that cursed place, and he shuddered. "You're mad, Tirion," he said, but there was a sense of resignation in his voice that lifted Tirion's spirits. He knew that the warrior would be a valuable ally, and he thrilled at Jaran's next words. "When do we leave?"

Tirion clapped his old friend on the shoulder. "As soon as Sylvannas can get us outfitted. If all goes well, a week, no more."

Jaran sighed as he dismounted. "All right, Tirion," he said, tossing his saddlebags to the ground. "If it's that important, we'd better make camp here. No sense in tempting the Scourge. We'll be safer in daylight."

"Agreed," Tirion replied as he tied his mount to the low-hanging branch of a nearby pine. "You want to stand the first watch, or should I?"

"I'll do it," Jaran said, beginning to gather small sticks and dried pine straw. "You look about done in." Piling the kindling in a chimney-like structure, he pulled steel and flint from the pouch at his belt. A few minutes later, he'd built a small blaze, feeding it carefully until he had a respectable fire.

A sensation of cold permeated Tirion's dreams and he swam up out of sleep, gasping for air, as if he were drowning. Dark shapes surrounded the camp; he could just make out the sound of steel sliding free and he leapt to his feet, yelling for Jaran. The warrior was at his side at once, sword flashing in the dim light of the dying fire.

The priest muttered and Tirion's skin began to crawl as the spell took effect. He could sense his life force leaching from him in a nearly visible stream. Raising the mace, he whispered the words taught him when he'd first joined the Silver Hand, words first spoken to him by Uther himself. The Undead flinched as he swung it in a vicious arc, the glow of the Holy magic driving back the darkness. Tirion grunted in satisfaction as it connected with the priest's shoulder, eliciting a squeal of pain.

Jaran's back was to a tree and two of his assailants had already fallen. The only remaining combatant, a dagger-wielding blood elf, had withdrawn out of range of the warrior's sword, eyeing the man warily. When Brightleaf fell, he vanished into the wood, as silent as the grave as he disappeared.

"You have no idea what you're up against, Fordring." Brightleaf spat, his lips stained green with ichor. The blue flame in his eyes was fading, and Tirion leaned close to hear the last words. "Bolvar is coming, Tirion," the Undead said. "The Jailer of the Damned is going to finish what Lord Arthas started." A sigh, a last rattling breath, and he slumped to one side, the fire guttering out completely.

"He's dead," Jaran said, his hand cold on Tirion's shoulder. "Come, we must get through Tirisfal before nightfall.

Tirion squinted up at the warrior. "It's barely light now," he said. "We've plenty of time."

"No, we don't," Jaran said, tightening the cinch on his saddle. He jerked his head at the dead Scourge troops. "If Brightleaf was bold enough to make an attempt on our lives, I fear we may encounter resistance before we reach Lordaeron. I doubt the roads are safe, Tirion and the country is rough."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating. I have a number of paying projects on my plate that, unfortunately, have priority over the fun stuff. Being an adult sucks sometimes, no? I'll try and do better, I promise. In the meantime, I hope you've enjoyed the story so far. As always, please read and review.

Disclaimer: I own nothing of World of Warcraft; I merely play on their playground with their toys.

To his dying day, Tirion knew that he would never forget the mad dash to Lordaeron with the undead warrior. Packs of newly turned Scourge roamed in packs, their feral red eyes glowing in the fading dimness of night. To Tirion's surprise the two men were able to ride past the Bulwark without incident and he turned to Jaran, his mouth opened to speak when his companion held up a hand for silence. He reined in and Tirion pulled close; they stood still for a long moment before Jaran shook his head and continued west. Tirion stared after him, his brow pulled into a puzzled frown, before cantering in the warrior's wake, unsettled in his mind.

Jaran called a halt after a couple of hours, motioning for Tirion to stay where he was while he climbed to a height suitable for scouting. Tirion sat holding the reins of Jaran's charger, fuming with impatience, until the other man reappeared. "Well," he said, wincing inwardly at the peevishness of his tone, "what did you see?"

"Looks like we may be clear if we get moving now." Jaran swung back into the saddle and put spurs to his mount. "I see no movement on the roads." He squinted up at the sky where the sun was approaching her zenith. "I do believe, though, Tirion, that we'd be better off remaining under cover until we're nearer the city.

"Aye, my thoughts as well," the paladin replied. The forest closed in behind them as they rode forward, to Lordaeron and the fate awaiting them there.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Sylvannas Windrunner climbed to the battlements in the strong light of late afternoon. There were few of her people who were able to bear the harsh sunlight, but she had trained herself to withstand the pain. She stood looking out over her ruined land, her elvish heart aching to see the decay and rot the Scourge were spreading through the beautiful countryside. Cursing quietly, she swore, not for the first time, to put an end to them and their depredations.

A disturbance at the gate caught her attention, and she stared in disbelief as the unmistakable sight of an Alliance tabard in the scrum. Cursing under her breath, she hurried down the stairs and through the courtyard. As she approached, she heard a familiar voice raised in anger, and as she strode through the gate, her jaw dropped in astonishment as Tirion caught her eye.

"Ah, Windrunner, there you are." He attempted to kick his mount to where she stood, but the Royal Guard gripping the halter of the animal prevented him from moving. With a curse and a glare, the paladin dismounted and pushed his way through the crowd to her, throwing off the hands reaching out to halt him. Bowing with unusual gravity, he said, "You and I need to talk, if you will hear me." Jerking his head toward the guards and lookers-on, he added, "In private, if you don't mind."

She nodded curtly. "Let him be," she said as she turned to the guards who had hold of a struggling Jaran. The warrior snarled and snatched his sword from the man who had confiscated it upon their entry.

"Thank you, my lady," he said, bowing as he shot the Forsaken a poisonous glare. "May I have your leave to stable our horses?" She nodded and he moved away, still muttering under his breath about manners, or the lack thereof.

Sylvannas smiled to herself; Jaran had been a good friend for years and she understood his anger at the mistreatment. Sighing aloud, she resolved to speak to him personally when she had a chance. A warrior of his standing certainly deserved better after years of loyal service.

"Come, Tirion," she said, starting toward the moldering old palace. "We can speak in my chambers." A Troll dressed in robes that proclaimed him a magic-user broke away from the guards, and fell in step with the Dark Lady and the paladin. Tirion eyed him askance; after his experience with Brightleaf, he found that he distrusted casters of any type.

"Nilstari," Sylvannas said as they walked, "see that there is wine in my private rooms so that I might entertain Lord Tirion with the respect he deserves." The mage's eyes widened at this, but he bowed and hurried away without a sound. Tirion watched him go, eyes narrowed and Sylvannas gave him a questioning look.

"You have a problem with my mage?" she asked, voice carefully neutral.

"No," Tirion said, shaking his head. "It's just-." He hesitated, but Sylvannas motioned at him impatiently and he gave her a brief rundown of his and Jaran's encounter with Brightleaf and his companions. Her face darkened with anger as he talked, and when he'd finished, she was fuming with rage.

"I'll send someone on to Andorhal tonight, rest assured on that point, Lord Tirion," she said and he shivered at the coldness in her voice. "Someone has much to answer for." He bowed his thanks and they continued on to the Royal wing in silence.

They reached her chamber, and Sylvannas dismissed the two guards at the door, giving them instructions that she and Tirion not be disturbed. The two creatures bowed and vanished into the gloom and Sylvannas gestured Tirion ahead of her. The mage had carried out her orders with remarkable efficiency; there was a selection of good wines, as well as bread and cheeses and Tirion mumbled his thanks as he fell on the simple repast with gusto. Sylvannas ate sparingly to keep him company; she did not require sustenance, but old habits died hard, even after the long years which had passed since Arthas had raised her to this cursed life.

At last the old paladin sat back, a cup of the smooth wine of Darnassus in his hand. "What brings you here, Tirion?" He'd always admired Sylvannas' directness, but now he found himself squirming a bit under her harsh gaze. Another long draught from the cup and he faced her, his eyes haunted.

"It's Fordragon, Windrunner." His voice was low, but it chilled her all the same. "His grip on the Scourge has somehow weakened, and even now they are gathering in strength and number in the dark places. I believe that it is only a matter of time before they make a concerted attack on us, both Alliance and Horde."

"It's true," she whispered and he stared at her in amazement. She nodded. "It's true Tirion, every word of it." She paced, bootheels echoing as Tirion sat silent, watching her closely, his eyes narrowed as she struggled to find the words he needed to hear.

"When?" he asked finally, giving her the opening she couldn't seem to find. He'd never seen the woman before him so indecisive and it frightened him a bit.

"It began about a year ago." Sylvannas ran a shaking hand over her face. "At first it was nothing more than a feeling of unease, that something wasn't quite right. Soon, I was having visions, visions of the Wrathgate at Angrathar." Tirion shivered; many of the soldiers who had served under him as members of the Argent Crusade had recounted the horrors of the battle there.

"I've been plagued with dreams," he said, and she whirled to face him, a look of real fear on her face. "It began at roughly the same time as your visions, I'd guess."

"Why didn't you say anything, Fordring?" There was anger in her voice, but he thought he heard relief there as well, relief at knowing that she wasn't alone.

"I've had much to do at Light's Hope," he answered testily. Pouring another cupful of wine, he leaned forward, face intent. "Varian has me slaving away at those damned towers, and now he's sent Demalier to take me back to Stormwind." He gave her a wintry smile. "He thinks I've gone mad, you know."

"I'd heard that," she said with a sardonic smile.

"I'm not surprised," he said. Each had spies in the other's camp; it was understood. They fell silent, lost in memories of Icecrown and the atrocities that Arthas had visited on that cursed land.

"We have to go back, don't we?" It was simply stated, but Tirion could hear fear and loathing in those seven words.

"Aye," he answered at last. "We've got to finish what we started, Windrunner."

She started to reply, but a frantic pounding on the door broke the tableau and she pulled it open to the face of the mage, Nilstari. "My lady, I apologize for the interruption," he said with a deep bow. "The man on watch sent me to you. There is a wounded wind rider in the courtyard, refusing to speak to anyone but you. His mount is protecting him, not to mention he's rather gifted with his sword."

Sylvannas cursed and ran from the room, the mage close on her heels. Tirion followed more slowly, his mind more troubled now than it had been when he'd arrived.


	6. Chapter 6

Sylvannas vanished down the corridor as Tirion stepped out, the mage just behind her. The paladin took his time walking to the lift, pondering what she had told him of her visions. He passed men and women of Undercity without seeing them; they gave him a wide berth, none wishing to intrude on his thoughts since he was under the protection of the Dark Lady.

As he approached the pulleys used to lift the great stone plates, he heard the sound of running feet above, and over the rumble, the high screech of a wounded animal. When the lift came to a stop, Tirion sprinted toward the courtyard, his mace drawn.

A great crowd was milling about, and he pushed through them, making for Sylvannas' tall form. At last he broke through into an area clear of people and he moved around the group until he arrived at her side.

A young Tauren, sword drawn, lashed out at any who attempted to draw close to him. His mount, one wing limp from what looked to Tirion like an arrow shot, screeched again, the sound causing everyone to cover their ears. "Who is he?" he asked when the unnerving sound faded. "He seems familiar…"

"I don't know," Sylvannas replied as her men tried again to surround the Tauren warrior. He had withdrawn into an easily defended corner, and the paladin had to admire his tactics. "Can you talk to him, Tirion?" she asked, turning to face him. "I know how men of war think, but I do not speak their language."

Tirion nodded. "I'll try. In the meantime, can you clear out this rabble? It will make things simpler if I can talk without having to scream." Sylvannas issued a series of sharp orders and the courtyard cleared in a matter of minutes. "Unbelievable," Tirion muttered as she withdrew with her men, marveling at the discipline and the power she wielded so easily.

The wind rider lashed out as he drew near, and he jumped back, cursing as the great claws narrowly missed his unprotected neck. "Throw down your weapon, Alliance scum," the Tauren snarled.

Tirion ignored the insult. Slowly, he laid the blessed mace aside before stripping off his chest plate and helm. Holding out his hands to show that he was unarmed, he looked the massive creature in the eyes. "May I have the pleasure of knowing your name, young brave?" he said in Taur-ahe. A look of amazement passed over the Tauren's face and his mouth dropped open. Tirion might have been amused if it were not for the blood he saw seeping from beneath the leather breastplate.

It solidified in an instant; the bold lines of the great head, the noble intelligence in the brown eyes. "You might want to have that looked at, Bloodhoof," he said. Ignoring the other's gasp of shock, he went on. "Oh yes, I recognize you now, young Maru. I met you once, years ago when I came across a hunting party led by your uncle. You couldn't have been more than, what, five or six summers old?"

"I was seven." Maru spoke a few words to the wind rider and in a few minutes the animal had curled behind him, eyes watchful as the Tauren motioned Tirion to approach. "I remember you too, Lord Tirion." He attempted a bow and Tirion put out a hand to steady him when it seemed as if he might land on his head.

"Where are you injured?" he asked as he eased Maru to a sitting position and began stripping off the Tauren's armor. The undertunic was soaked with blood and Maru bit back a whimper of pain as Tirion tugged it over his head.

"Sword slash, left side," Maru grunted. Tirion found it and hissed at the sight of the deep, ragged wound.

"Can you sit up straight?" he asked as he began to gather his power. "Your lung is punctured and if I heal you in that position, you're going to have a scar that pulls whenever you try to stand straight. Now, how would that look in front of your uncle?" He smiled at Maru, who attempted a grin in reply.

"I'll try," he said, wincing as he stiffened his spine.

"Ah, much better," Tirion said. He closed his eyes, letting the Light fill his mind before sending it out to envelop the great barrel chest. The wound began to knit, skin closing until only a thin pink line remained to show that Maru had taken any injury at all.

The Tauren stood gingerly, as if expecting pain. Feeling nothing, he held out a hand to the paladin, his face breaking into a sunny smile. "Thank you, Lord Tirion," he said, gratitude evident on his face. "I can't thank you enough."

"Yes you can." Sylvannas' voice made them both jump and Tirion whirled to see her perched on the steps of the courtyard. She gave them a thin smile as she walked to greet Maru, who bowed as she approached. He managed easily, but Tirion thought that he saw hesitation and wariness in his eyes.

"What can I do for you, Lady Sylvannas?"

"Oh, I think you know, young Maru. Yes, I was eavesdropping," she said as Maru gaped at her much the way he had at Tirion's identification of him. "Now, what is so important that you feel the need to plow up my courtyard?"

Tirion heard the amusement in her voice, but Maru blanched and began speaking rapidly. Fortunately, it was in Taur-ahe; he didn't get more than a few words out before Tirion shushed him, looking around to see if they'd been overheard. Seeing no one, he motioned Sylvannas closer. "We'd better take this someplace more private, Windrunner."

Sylvannas stared at him for a long moment, but Tirion met her gaze with steely eyes and she shrugged. "As you wish, Lord Tirion," she said, her tone puzzled and angry. "Bring him inside."

They started back toward the lift, Maru limping slightly. "What's wrong with you?" Tirion asked. "Do you have an injury that you failed to tell me about, Maru?" The warrior muttered something under his breath, something that Tirion didn't catch. "Would you speak up, please?" he said, a little mystified at Maru's reluctance. "My old ears aren't what they used to be, you know."

"Saddle sores, all right?" Maru snapped, his face darkening as hot blood rushed into his cheeks. "I rode that miserable creature all the way from Stranglethorn with only one stop along the way.

"Stranglethorn?" Sylvannas whipped her head around, pinning the Tauren with a fierce glare. "And just where, pray tell, in Stranglethorn did you take flight?" Her eyes were smoldering and Maru flinched under the piercing gaze.

"From Bambala," he whispered.

"Bambala? Then where is Malia?" Sylvannas loomed over the Tauren, tall as he was, and Maru shrank back, real terror in his eyes now.

"Dead," he replied, his lips shaking. Tirion hoped that the lad would not cry, but he was young to be standing toe to toe with such a forceful personality as the Dark Lady.

"Ease up, Windrunner," he growled. "Let the boy tell his story his own way." He smiled encouragingly at Maru, who returned it with a shaky grin.

"My quarters, Fordring. Now." Sylvannas' voice was as cold as the winds blowing off Icecrown Glacier, and Tirion sighed as she turned on her heel and stalked away.

"Come on, lad," Tirion said. "We need to get some food in you." He started toward the ruined castle, but turned aside before they reached the lifts.

"What about Lady Sylvannas?" Maru asked as he walked beside the paladin. "Won't she be angry if we do not meet her at once?"

"Probably," Tirion said with a grin at the Tauren. "But I've found that dealing with her is sometimes easier on a full stomach. Besides, I do not answer to her. Now, come on."

There was a small mess hall for the living members of Sylvannas' army, and Tirion led Maru to a table in the back. "Be right back," he said, disappearing into the mass of jostling soldiers. It was near sundown and the evening meal had evidently just been served; there was little room, and Maru began to think the walls were closing in when the paladin returned.

Tirion tossed a full wineskin and a couple of pasties onto the table before sinking into the chair across from Maru, groaning as his knees popped and cracked. "Eat, Maru" he said as he tipped a small measure from the skin into their cups. The Tauren took a few tentative bites, dabbing crumbs from his lips before taking a sip of the watered wine. Sylvannas was intelligent enough to keep it at half-strength, especially when her barracks were at full capacity. Many a soldier had died on a barroom floor, a knife in his guts, without ever getting a chance to draw steel against an enemy.

They ate in silence, Tirion not wishing to talk openly here in the mess. Among soldiers, rumors would fly quicker than thought. Maru ate with the singlemindedness of a seasoned soldier and Tirion turned his attention to his own food. He ate slowly, having learned at his mother's knee that taking the time to enjoy even the simplest meal was one of life's greatest pleasures.

The chatter in the hall died down and he looked up to see Maru, face pale, drop his food into his wine cup. "Is that a Tauren thing?" he joked. "Dipping meat in wine?"

Maru did not answer; he leapt to his feet, knocking over the bench in the process, fumbling to draw his sword.

Tirion turned to see what had caused such a reaction. Nilstari stood looking around, searching for them Tirion guessed. Turning back to Maru, he was surprised to see the Tauren's face was twisted with hatred and anger. "Prepare to meet your end, Troll," he hissed. "Your death is upon you." Bellowing an ancient war chant, he vaulted over the table, sword held high as he charged toward the stunned mage.

A/N: I hope you've enjoyed this chapter, as it will be the last for a while. I will get back to it as soon as possible, but I am approaching crunch time on finishing the editing of my first novel. I'll see you beautiful people around the first of April if all goes according to plan. As always, please review if this is something you wish me to continue. Cheers!


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